


Out of her Control

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt: After the team returns to the subway from a particularly challenging number, Root collapses and doesn't have a pulse. They get her heart started again and quickly get her to a hospital. Shaw can only sit numbly, holding Root's hand while Root is asleep in a hospital bed. It turns out that the torture that Control put Root through damaged her heart. Shaw is extremely worried and wonders what she can do to protect her wife. When Root wakes up, she for the first time sees Shaw crying</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of her Control

Root stumbles back as a freight train connects with her chest, throwing her ribcage into her spine and stealing the breath from her lungs. At least, it felt like a freight train. In all actuality, it was the heel of a Samaritan operative’s hand striking her in the chest, the woman’s carpal bones drilling into Root’s heart.

Root wheezes out a cough, eyes momentarily jarred from focus as her right hand instinctively falls over her chest. She draws in an uneven breath, the oxygen like molecular knives splitting her esophagus into ribbons. The world grays, and she slouches over, forcing her eyes to remain open as she painstakingly straightens back up. Pushing past the millions of small hands that try to pull her under, Root’s eyes flash with crimson, and she surges forward.

The first punch she throws is off, as if her internal timing has been altered. Deflecting it easily, the operative gets in another sharp blow- this time to Root’s jaw. Root’s head snaps left and back, as if held in place by a spring, and with that, the clock begins ticking once more. Three quick jabs to the woman’s stomach, Root’s hands on her shoulders as she forces the woman’s torso into her awaiting knee, a quick snap of the operative’s humerus, and she crumbles to the floor. Root stares down at the motionless woman before taking a half step back, trying to maintain her equilibrium as the floor shifts like bay water below her feet. The concrete ripples, causing mini tsunamis to knock her off balance. Her heart dances to the beat of an unsteady drum, and Root feels a sickness like an oncoming cold stretching from the depths of her chest. Her ears begin to hum and a faint whine grows, causing white pinpoints to expand before her eyes.

“ _Root_? Root. Hey, Earth to _Crazy_?” Turning her face up, Root finds Shaw peering at her, eyes emotionless and arms folded. The humming dies at once, along with the white blotches, and the present collapses back on Root’s dazed state. Shaking her head free of the fuzz, she pulls her eyes open wider, expressing her attention. “I said we’re ready to go.”

* * *

 

Root blinks once- twice- the pieces of her disorganized puzzle shuffling back into place. Looking around, Root finds John Reese making military sweeps of the large room with his icy eyes, Detective Lionel Fusco gawking down at the twitching legs of gunned-down agents, and Harold Finch gazing distastefully at a laptop with a hole the size of Texas planted in its center. In a way, Root feels that same sort of hole devouring her chest.

Still, she ignores the sensation, and brings a quaint smile to her lips, eyes softening with fondness as her gaze returns to Shaw. “Then what are we waiting for?” Root responds, relieved that her voice sounds stronger than she feels. The sickness grows within her, tapping into her blood vessels and trickling through her veins, all the while lodging itself between her joints, making each movement taxing and painful. She rolls her neck in a circle, determined to shake the stiffness causing her bones to creak.

“You look like crap,” Shaw mutters below her breath as the team slips away from the aged concrete building with broken out windows and overgrown ivy clinging to the walls. She and Root fall just behind the rest of the group, and if Root’s heart wasn’t pinned down by cinderblocks, it would have fluttered. “Did you get shot or something?”

Root barely holds back a toothy grin. “Nope,” she replies simply, and watches from the corner of her eye as Shaw’s lips purse with dissatisfaction.

“Then what’s wrong?” She persists, voice a little tighter. A devilish light flickers into Root’s partially clouded eyes.

“What’s _wrong_?” Root echoes in a tone that muses to itself. “What’s _wrong_ is that you and I still have our _clothes_ on.” Root sees Shaw’s ears begin to change shades past her loose strands of dark hair. Root turns her face to Shaw, waiting with extended patience until Shaw grudgingly meets her eyes. “You _know_ ,” Root continues, voice purring with seduction, “I could _easily_ fix that.” While, as moved as Root is by Shaw’s concern, she knows the only way to make Shaw stop asking questions is to sexually frustrate her into submission. Shaw’s gaze hardens in flustered defense, onyx eyes burning like coal as she shakes her head tactlessly, brushing past Root to catch up with the boys. Root, too, tries to gain speed, but finds she can barely will her limbs to move, let alone accelerate.

Shaw briskly jams herself into the driver’s seat of their large, black SUV, Reese following with shotgun. Root and Harold clamber into the back- Root straining to hide her wince as the muscles in her chest pull- forcing Fusco into the fold up third row. Before Root even has a chance to settle into the seat, Shaw puts metal on metal, and they speed off.

The rapid movement throws Root’s back into the seat, and her entire body screams. She can feel the Charley horse spread from just under her left arm to a circle around her heart, before slowly moving in. Her throat is tight as her heart flaps about in her ribcage like an injured bird, bleeding out and too terrified to sit still. Everything pulls in and out- sound and touch and sight- her skin tugging in all directions as a disgusting mix of epinephrin and melatonin battle in her body. Her eyes flutter closed just to shoot back open, eyes glassy with live vibrance, only to slump in her seat as fatigue washes over her, all the while her fingers twitch and itch with the unused energy piling up under her skin. She hasn’t felt this- this _terrible_ \- since her impromptu stapedectomy with Control, not to mention her roller coaster of mystical syringes.

“Is everything alright, Ms. Groves?” Harold’s voice filters through the fog in Root’s head, and she turns to face him sluggishly, eyes unsure whether to be tired or energized. She searches his ocean-blue gaze a moment, then leans her cheek against the back of Shaw’s seat, eyes trained on John.

“Why am _I_ never allowed to sit shotgun?” Root asks in a teasing tone, Reese’s eyes meeting hers with soft amusement.

“Because the _last_ time you sat up here when Shaw was driving, you posed to much of a _distraction_ ,” he answers with a wry smirk, and she grins; an honest, pleasured grin. _Nothing like counting on the Big Lug to keep your spirits up,_ she thinks to herself, settling back into her seat, wedging herself between the edge of the cushions and the door. Her mind’s eye flashes to the image of that Samaritan operative’s palm striking her chest, and she wonders if Shaw knows the trick, and if she could teach it to her some time. As if on cue, her heart gives a yelp, and she tenses her shoulders, willing the sharp pangs of agony to cease.

“Oh, you think _you_ have it rough?” Fusco busts from the back, tone as irritated as ever. “You should try _sittin_ back _here_. This is basically a _trunk_ with a backrest.”

“Just be happy we didn’t take the Civic,” Reese quips back, tone leveled and cool. “Their trunks don’t _have_ backrests.”

“You’re real funny, you know that?” Fusco throws back hotly, crossing his arms and peering out the window. Root wants to laugh- tries to- but finds the breath it would take she no longer has, and her head floats on her shoulders as it’s filled with helium. Her heart soars, only causing her bruised ribs to ache more, yet she is detrimentally tired at the same time. Time escapes her as the gray tinge returns to the edges of her vision, then the darkness of her eyelids come closing in like prison doors locking her away from the world. She fights to hold them open, yet they are ten tons of steel and she is only flesh and bones.

Her eyes only close for a second before she feels hands on her shoulder as Harold nudges her back to consciousness. Root processes little save for the fact that his shaking feels as if he’s making a toss salad with her insides. She lifts her head from its resting place against the window, and struggles to push open the door. Her hands are chalk white, nails equally pale, and she can feel the smallest perspiration breaking at the back of her neck. Her boots are lead and she can barely lift her feet as she trudges towards the subway station with the group.

She looks over to Shaw, whose eyes dart away the instant Root’s land, yet- after a few seconds- Shaw does a double take. Her eyes are like vultures as they pick apart Root’s every feature, and Root has the stomach pitting sense that Shaw has scavenged her way directly into Root’s soul. Whatever annoyance Shaw had maintained from Root’s earlier comment disintegrates in this stare, and Shaw passes behind Harold, headed directly for Root.

Shaw says nothing, merely comes to Root’s side just before they reach century old cob webs and a vending machine from the middle ages; everyone stops to wait for Harold to open their entryway. Root sways on her feet, stomach jumping into her lungs as the room begins to spin. Slowly at first, then faster, faster into a carousel spun out of control. She feels a hand in hers and another on her opposing hip, yet can barely see straight enough to realize it’s Shaw. Through blurring swirls and fun house mirrors, Root finds the rest of the team turning to look at her. Shaw’s mouth moves, and only then Root realizes she cannot hear. Nothing except for that hum that magnifies as whining seeps in around the edges and the pinpoints poke back into her eyes expanding like ink on paper until the whiteness blinds her and closes her throat and swallows her muscles and-

_______\ If Your Number’s Up /_______

Root drops like a stone from the top of the Chrysler Building. She slips from Shaw’s light grasp like a feather in the wind, yet lands with the weight of a dead body to the grime coated, tile floor. Shaw, Harold, Fusco, and Reese all watch in disconnect as Root crumples like a building rigged to blow, head striking the floor with a blood curdling crack, bouncing off, then thudding back down. Eyes open wide and shining like polished marbles; mouth parted the slightest bit, as if even she, too, were shocked. There is a half second of absolute stillness that drags on like a millennium before Shaw’s instincts kick back into gear, and she instantly drops to the ground at Root’s side.

Rolling Root onto her back, Shaw peers into Root’s eyes with scrutinizing deliberation before giving the side of Root’s face a wake-up pat.

Nothing.

Shaw brings her ear to Root’s mouth, holding her breath as she listens in absolute silence.

Nothing.

Shaw slides herself down across the floor, elbows resting on either side of Root’s torso as Shaw presses her ear down to Root’s chest.

Nothing.

She brings her left hand to Root’s neck, fingers digging into her jugular as Shaw lays there, lungs burning as her oxygen runs low. _No pulse. No breath. No life_. Sucking in a gulp of air just when she’s ready to burst, Shaw springs to action, medical training tapping into her mind all the while an uncommon, animalistic uncertainty grips her chest. In all of her time practicing the medical field, or of being in combat, or working for the CIA, she’d never once felt this panic. This biting urgency to return everything back to normal. She’d never been so needy for the sound of a heartbeat.

Not bothering with the zipper of Root’s leather jacket, Shaw brings a hand to each side of the collar, ripping it open and exposing the thin t-shirt underneath. Shaw comes to both knees, hunching over Root’s body and placing her hands one atop the other, beginning the chest compressions she’d been taught on day one.

Throwing all she has into it, Shaw makes thirty chest compressions. Stopping, she tilts Root’s head back the slightest bit, bringing the side of her face to Root’s mouth once more. Her eyes scan Root’s chest- it doesn’t move. Keeping one hand under Root’s chin, Shaw pinches Root’s nose, then brings her mouth to Root’s. _Breathe in; breathe out. Wait. Breathe in; breathe out._ Nothing changes, and Shaw drops Root’s face, going back to the chest compressions. Her teeth are bared and her eyes are icy with determination, muscles screaming from being wound so tightly. Peering up briefly, she finds the three men watching her, utterly transfixed.

“What the _Hell_ are you waiting for,” Shaw grunts, trying to focus on her words and the number of compressions. “Call for an ambulance.” As if releasing him from a trance, Fusco leaps from the ancient passageway, fingers flying over his cellphone keys as he calls it in. Harold, on the other hand, animates differently. His eyes become somber as his lips twist down in a crooked purse.

“Ms. Shaw, are y-”

“If you’re about to ask if I’m sure calling 9-1-1 is a good idea, you can keep it to _yourself_ ,” Shaw barks, anger coursing through her circulatory system. She stops, listens, breathes, and begins the third cycle.

“I understand your concern,” Harold tells her compassionately, voice hastened with worry. “But you have to understand how dangerous it is for any of us to be seen-”

“I’ll take my chances,” Shaw spits virulently, seeing red. If she weren’t so busy preforming CPR, Shaw would be encasing her fingers around his neck. She brings her face to Root’s mouth, checking once more for any signs of breathing. There is still nothing. “ _Come_ on, come _on_ ,” Shaw hisses under her breath, willing Root to hear. She breathes into Root once, twice- nothing.

She starts another round of chest compressions as Reese leaves the room, murmuring something to Harold Shaw’s doesn’t have the time nor the attention to hear.

“I-swear-when-I-get-you-back-I-will-kill-you-for-this,” Shaw seethes with each compression, shoeing away the slender fingers of dread that keep trying to wrap around her heart. _She’ll be fine_ , Shaw insists, commanding herself to believe it. _She has to be fine because I still have to kick her scrawny ass for this._

“Down here! Hurry up!” Shaw hears Fusco’s voice echoing through the empty corridors, and footsteps fall like a stampede, volume magnifying until she’s drowning in sound. She becomes acutely aware of every sound and smell and sight and touch and taste, to the point where she is nearly overwhelmed with it all. She hyper-focuses on Root- on her marble white face and cast open eyes- each eyelash showing vivid contrast against the snow of her skin and the coffee brown of her eyes. She hears the syncopated thump-crunch-crack of her compressions met by Root’s broken ribs pushing in and popping back out. She smells sweat and blood and fury and worry mingling in the musty subway air, and can taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue from biting it so hard in concentration. Shaw feels her fingers against the balled-up fabric of Root’s shirt, nails digging into the cotton; and she can feel her knees aching from kneeling on the hard floor. She feels hands on her shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh and pulling her backwards- she fights it.

“Shaw, Shaw you have to _stop_ ,” Reese commands, voice stern yet not raised. “ _Shaw_. You have to let the paramedics in.” Time slows down within Shaw’s mind, Reese’s words moving at a snail’s pace within her head, unable to bring comprehension to the syllables. She struggles against Reese as he yanks her back, now accompanied by Harold, who slowly wraps a hand around her arm. Everything goes slowly. The paramedics are slugs as they inch forward with a gurney, two of them grabbing Root at the head and feet and sliding her on. A third crawls into eyeshot holding an AED. They use lazy fingers to cut Root’s shirt away with agonizingly slow speed. The pads of the defibrillator trudge downward as the other paramedics slowly pull their hands back. _Slow, slow, slow._

Shaw’s thrashing subsides as she fumbles back into a sitting position, being dragged back by Harold and John, their arms encasing her and drawing her towards the opposite wall. Time crashes back to her just in time to hear the first

“CLEAR.”

Root’s body convulses on the collapsed gurney, back arching and neck snapping back. As if- for a moment- there was a surge of life. Just as quickly as it came, it is gone.

“CLEAR.”

Another shockwave runs down Root’s body, everything from her face to her fingers coursing with the flow of electricity. The paramedic with the AED tosses it back in a small bag, slings it over his shoulders, then kneels over Root on the gurney, immediately resuming Shaw’s interrupted CPR. The remaining two medics lift the gurney, lock it, then begin to roll Root from the space. Before Shaw has time to truly understand what this means, Reese is lifting her to her feet and helping her chase after them down the corridor.

_______\ We’ll Find You /______

Sameen Shaw paces the hospital waiting room like a Sentinel before the Tomb of the Unknowns; twenty-one steps for the twenty-one linoleum tiles between ancient, cushioned chairs, sharp turn, twenty-one back. Each time she makes it to the far left, her ice cold eyes connect venomously with Harold’s, who peers up just briefly enough to meet her spiteful gaze. Since arriving, Harold’s kept the brim of his fedora tipped down over his eyes, staring intently down at a floppy magazine that conceals the rest of his face from view; yet, the page hasn’t flipped once in the half hour they’ve been waiting. Shaw stares at him, gaze searing his skin as he peers up once more, and she turns, headed back for the other end of the waiting room. A multitude of thoughts buzz about her head like a hoard of angry wasps, and no amount of swatting keeps them away.

 _How long is this going to take?_ She seethes for the umpteenth time. The longer they stay, the more danger they’re in- sure, Finch has made that plenty clear- however, the longer they have to wait confined in those pale beige walls surrounded by sterile cleaners and sniffling strangers, the more of a chance there is that Root is not doing well. _Maybe she’s dead, and they just don’t want to tell us._ Shaw’s eyes dart over to a nurse behind a desk and find’s the woman’s blue eyes already on her. They widen in fear as Shaw’s stare freezes her soul, and she quickly diverts her eyes to the nearest clip board. Shaw has half a mind to break her vigil pacing, to stalk across the room and grab the nurse by the collar, demanding everything she knows. _She has to know something._

Just when her anger starts to beat her self control, Reese pushes through the thick, maple door that connects the hall to the room, sporting coffee and vending machine snacks. He peers at her, emotionless eyes revealing nothing as he searches her face. His jaw twitches. Shaw’s eyes narrow.

“You like cheese curls, right?” Reese asks, obstructing her vision of the nurse. Shaw folds her arms, irritation mounting as her mind floods with violent thoughts.

“Not hungry, Reese,” she mutters, eyes telling him not to dare question her. Yet, he doesn’t listen.

“You never ’ _not hungry_ ,’” he counters before tossing the small, yellow bag her way. Then, taking one of the steaming coffees from a cardboard holder, he hands it to her. As he brushes past her, Shaw finds that the desk is now a ghost town. The phone rings in its holder, but no one comes to answer. With a sigh, her fury diminishes, and she follows John back to the chairs, sinking into one and taking a slug of her scorching beverage. Her mouth pulls up in a sneer of distaste. It had been years since she’d been a resident at a hospital, and she never once missed the sewage-in-a-cup joe they served. She places it down on the floor, just to realize her foot is tapping against the ground at a thousand miles a minute. And she can’t get it to stop. She has this dire urge to get up- _to do something_. She needs to be hunting down bad guys and shooting out knee caps and forcing intel out of Samaritan operatives.

“Is anyone here for a Miss… Katharine Blodgett?” A woman’s voice bounces off the walls, reverberating and smacking Shaw from all sides. It takes only a second for the alias Harold conjured up to register in Shaw’s mind, and she darts to her feet. Harold and John follow suit, with Finch tossing back down the magazine as the three come forward. Shaw takes stock of the woman, nearly six feet, with a feebly thin frame and tired eyes. Shaw’s eyes fall from the nurse to the keycard-locked door behind her. It wouldn’t take much to overpower the woman, take the card, and let herself in.

“How is she?” Reese asks, jarring Shaw from her plotting. The nurse- Carey as her name tag reads- peers down at her clipboard, lips scrunching to the side.

“I’m sorry,” Carey informs them in a sympathetic voice, and Shaw feels her stomach begin a hazardous plummet. “But I’m unable to give you any information at this time. There is no record of her immediate family.” Shaw’s stomach stops its descent, and hot headed frustration sinks into her bones. Now, more than ever, she wants to take this woman down. “May I know who you all are, and your relation to Miss Blodgett?”

“ _Mrs_. Blodgett,” Shaw corrects, and Carey gives her a curious look. “I’m the wife.” The nurse’s eyes widen, paling half a shade before regaining her composure.

“And is there any way you can _corroborate_ that?” Carey asks in a superior tone that Shaw wants to choke out of her throat. Lips curling up with a snarl and eyes catching fire, Shaw gives her the finger. The _ring_ finger. Carey takes in the wedding band and nods, scribbling onto her clip board vigorously. “Okay,” she says at last. “Name?”

“Sameen Blodgett,” Shaw says stiffly, teeth clenched. She can’t help but wonder if Root’s condition is also chicken scratched into that board, only inches away but so nearly impossible to get to.

“And _you_?” Cary asks, looking up at Reese. The hint of a smirk festers on her thin lips as her elevator eyes look him over. Reese and Shaw share a look.

Clearing his throat, he replies, “Brother-in-law. Name’s John.” Carey again scribbles on the her papers.

“You have a phone number, _John_?” She asks him coyly, and Shaw clicks her teeth.

“Not one he’s going to give to _you_ ,” Shaw spits out impatiently, winning an irritated and flustered glare from the nurse. “Now can you tell us how she’s _doing_?” Carey rolls her tongue across her teeth, never once breaking eye contact with Shaw. She doesn’t answer, just clicks her pen ever so slowly. Time passes. It might have been less than a second, but it’s an eternity and a half to Shaw, who finally snaps. She lunges forward, arms extending- just to be caught in a net of Reese’s arms. He pins her hands to her sides in an awkward, strangling hug, the two of them jerking spasmodically for control. Shaw bears her teeth like fangs before trying to yank out of Reese’s grip once more. She knees him in the crotch, and he wheezes.

“Talk about a low blow,” he hisses out, not letting her go. Shaw’s eyes leap with the flames of Hell as the nurse continues to watch her, almost egging Shaw on. “You lay a hand on her, they kick you out. Then you won’t have _any_ idea how Root’s doing,” he whispers in her ear- voice still strained from pain- and she at last settles back down. Her fingernails dig into the sides of her legs until she can feel her skin splitting through her jeans. After a moment more, Reese lets her go.

Satisfied, Carey smirks, then turns her attention onto Harold. “You are..?” She asks. Shaw, peering over at Harold, feels a proud tendril of smoke sneak into her system at seeing the fatal glow in his eyes that could make even a grown man shudder. It’s a look he rarely pulls, but when he does, you know he’s only seconds away from the Hulk.

“Harold Sandpiper,” he answers in a low, dangerous voice, eyes cold and lips pursed. “Mrs. Blodgett’s uncle.” The nurse presses her lips together, knuckles turning white; she grips the clipboard as if it’s a shield and he’s a dragon. Without writing a single word down, she nods. Briskly, she swipes her ID card down a slot in the wall, and a loud horn blares. The doors mechanically glide open.

“Room 206,” Carey tells them, meeting no one’s eye as the doors click open. The three step through, the siren sounds once more, and they shut.

Instantly, the dull beige is replaced with sterile white, the florescent light stinging Shaw’s eyes as it bounces off each polished tile and metallic surface. All around her, the fragrances of blood and vomit and death are sugar coated with bleach, and the doctors cover their speckled jackets with plastic smiles as they pass her. All except one, who stops before them with a serious, solemn face. He adds rainbows to nothing, merely spewing blunt facts from minute one.

“I’m Daniel. She’s in stable but critical condition,” he tells them all, beginning to walk at Shaw’s side as they pick up once more. “We have her hooked up to an oxygen generator, but that is more for precaution than necessity,” he says. Shaw takes in the small amount of information, rolling it about her head every way she can. _Stable but critical. Oxygen generator._

“Is she awake?” Shaw asks, voice as disconnected as his. As if they are both doctors discussing a case, and nothing more- at least that’s what she tells herself.

“No, and as far as we can tell, there is no knowing when she will resurface.” Shaw nods, still taking in, still processing.

“Do we have a cause for her heart stopping?” At that, the doctors stops.

“That’s where my questions for you begin,” he responds, and Shaw halts, looking at him with a hint of questioning in her eyes. Peering past his dark locks of brown hair, Shaw’s eyes scan the room number. _Two-oh-six_. Shaw’s palms begin to itch, fingers twitching and nerves humming as the anticipation grows. It’s like waiting in line for a haunted house, not knowing what lies within, but sure that you are its next victim. Shaw is barely able to pull her attention from the three digits as Dr. Daniel slides a clipboard from a plastic holder on the wall.

“It appears that Mrs. Blodgett  had severe heart damage previous to this encounter. Do you know anything about this?” Shaw looks at him; says nothing. She all but forgets that Harold and John are behind her; the only three things in the world being her, the doctor, and that door. He clears his throat, then continues. “She wasn’t, by any chance, a P.O.W.?” He asks, and Shaw shakes her head. He sighs. “The only time I’ve ever seen this is through a torture technique,” he explains with the shake of his head. “Grizzly stuff. You see, they have a whole bunch of syringes, half filled with an amphetamine, and the other half filled with a barbiturate.” Shaw’s outer countenance remains stoic; however, her blood begins to boil like a kettle left too long over an open flame. Her muscles tighten, stomach wrenching and twisting in fury as her eyes see red. “What they do, is they inject one of the barbiturate needles in one arm, and the amphetamine in the other. They say it’s like-”

“-a roller coaster of sorts,” Shaw finishes hollowly, eyes seeing past Daniel and to a memory of Root’s words. One of their relevant missions, a little time to kill, and what seemed like a harmless question about Root’s meeting with Control. Shaw grows ever more infuriated.

“So you’re familiar with this?” Dr. Daniel asks, impressed. “Yes, well, after a long enough time, the heart can explode. It’s used to gather information; it’s not pretty. But I’ve only ever seen one case over in Iraq- are you sure she has never-”

“Yes,” Shaw interrupts him tersely, voice harsh. She’s not mad at him so to say, but rather the world. At Control. _I’m going to kill Control._

“Well, something definitely happened, and it’s a miracle her heart hadn’t burst then.”

“So what, her heart burst _this_ time?” Shaw snaps, hands balling into tightly wound fists. Daniel does not appear phased by her outburst.

“Not quite,” he responds slowly, trying to make his tone as soothing as possible while still remaining professional. He scans Harold and John ’s faces, hoping their rationality will be enough to hold Shaw back if things get out of hand. He clears his throat. “We found a large contusion around her second to fifth ribs on the right side. Third and fourth were fractured. From what I can gather, something struck her in the chest-” Daniel thrusts the ball of his hand directly out in front of him. Leaving it there, he continues. “Usually, a great deal of force would need to be applied in order to sustain such damage. However, given your wife’s prior condition, it wouldn’t have taken more than a light punch in the right place to induce immediate fibrillation. What I’m saying is, the reverberating shock of a single blow could have been the last little shove her heart needed to go off the deep end. Did she appear sick or dizzy at any point before she collapsed?”

Shaw looks to Harold, whose face pales. He nods, as does Shaw, returning her gaze to the doctor. He looks back to the clipboard.

“We got her heart going as best we could, then rushed her into surgery,” Daniel tells them, gesturing with his hand to the room behind them. Shaw wants nothing more than for there to be a window there, just so the pressing mystery in her chest can cease. “We implanted an ICD. It’s no cure- I’m not sure if there _is_ any sort of cure for how damaged her heart is- but this will keep her from going into cardiac arrest.”

“So… she’s okay?” Shaw asks, using all the self control she has not to burn the hospital down with the flames of her fury. Daniel’s brow creases.

“She’s alive,” he answers deceptively. “She’s going to need time to heal from the surgery, and now her heart is more feeble than ever. There’s no telling what could set it off the next time.”

“Can we see her?” Reese asks from behind, and Daniel gives a short sigh of relief, sincere smile tugging onto his face- the bad news is finally over.

“Of course,” Daniel tells them, stowing the clipboard back in its slot. “Gotta warn you though, she is hooked up to a lot of bells and whistles.” With that, he pushes open the door and steps aside, leaving them all alone.

Shaw’s shoes turn to cement, and it takes all the strength she has to throw herself forward into the room, the boys in her wake.

The first thing her mind makes sense of is machinery. A pallid body with brown tangles of hair connected to IVs and monitors, every wire and tube sprouting from her like the legs of a bionic centipede. A heart monitor gives a steady beep, white and green lines spiking and dropping on a black back screen like a seismograph, as blue and black numbers constantly change, calculating medicine and oxygen intake and anything else under the sun. The more Shaw inches forward, the more she can see. The needles poking into Root’s soft skin; the sticky circles clinging to her shoulders, and other matching wires protruding from the collar of her hospital gown, no doubt monitoring her chest; the nasal cannula running over her ears and across her neck, leading to a small tank on the floor. Her eyes are closed and her body is still. If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Shaw would have sworn Root was dead.

And standing there, looking down at Root from only two feet away, all the anger is gone- replaced with a feeling Shaw doesn’t recognize. This sort of constriction in her chest as butterflies consume her stomach and bullets pierce her lungs. She can’t breathe. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

Harold closes the door, and with the latch clicking, Shaw reanimates. This alien sensation wracks her entire body, taking control of her with every beat of her heart. She can’t stand it- hates it- doesn’t understand it. Without thinking, she spins on one heel, throwing her fist into the wall. It connects with a heavy crunch, knuckles plowing through the first layer of plaster in the wall. Instantly, a surge of pain jolts her brain awake, and she relaxes. Pain, she understands pain. Bloody, physical sensation.

Removing her hand from the wall, she watches as one of her red, scratched knuckles gives a prickle of blood, and she shakes her wrist out, closing her eyes.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

Hands encase her shoulders and she tears away from them savagely, eyes opening wide and crazed as they fall on John Reese. He brings his hands up at either side of his head, showing no means of foul play, and merely watches her. Then, he breaks the stare, turning and walking towards Root’s bed. He stands there a minute, lips moving, but Shaw is unable to hear anything, if he even says anything at all. He backs away, headed for Harold.

“You should stay here,” Reese tells Shaw, “in case anyone shows up.” She can tell from the glint in his eye that he highly doubts anyone would attack, and silently thanks his understanding of the situation, even if she still doesn’t quite grasp it yet. “I’ll go back to the eighth and catch Lionel up.”

“And I’ll go to the station and check for any more numbers,” Harold adds, eyes never once leaving Root’s frame. He doesn’t move any closer to her- doesn’t make any notion of wanting to- yet there is a sort of hurt hidden behind his glasses.

“No,” Shaw tells him, and he finally looks away. His gaze lands on her with curiosity. Once more, Shaw’s blood pressure begins to rise. “To Hell with the numbers,” Shaw steams, voice growing in magnitude by the second. “You are going to find Control. I don’t care _how_ you do it, but you _find_ her, Harold.” His brow furrows, head tilting to the side.

“What good will come of th-”

“Just _do_ it,” Shaw snarls, sneer curling dangerously on her face, eyes dark and murderous. It does little to sway him.

“Why?” He asks bluntly. _As if he doesn’t already know_ , Shaw seethes to herself.

“Because I am going to _kill_ that _bitch_ ,” Shaw responds in a low, promising tone that drops the room’s temperature by twenty degrees. She can feel the icicles forming on her finger tips, and the chill stings her nose and her cheeks and her eyes. All of them feel the shift. Without saying another word, Harold merely shakes his head slowly before exiting the room. Reese gives her an assuring nod, then follows. Shaw waits, listening for the click of the latch, then pulls the lone visitor chair over to Root’s bedside and takes a seat.

________\ Out of Her Control /________

_Shaw awakens to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Her ears prick, honing in on the sound as she leaves her eyes closed, head resting against the edge of the hospital cot, back stiff from being hunched over so long._

_“What room is it,” a familiar voice demands from the hall, and Shaw’s eyes burst open. At first, she forgets where she is, but the silver light filtering in from the moon shows her a sink, a few cabinets, and the crinkled cloth of a hospital blanket._

_“Room two-hundred six, Ma'am,” a burly voice replies, and Shaw sits up, venom coursing through her veins. There are more footsteps that grow just before stopping outside of the door._

_“I’ve about had it with this ‘_ Groves’ _character,” Control says to her associate, tone cold and cynical. “It’s time to finish the job.” Shaw turns her face to Root, who still lies asleep on the hospital bed, unaware that yet another attempt is being made on her life._

_“What are you planning to do?” The deep voice asks, met by Control’s blood chilling chuckle. Then, there is the sharp zap of electricity._

_“One little shock should do it,” she responds. “Hell, rubbing your_ feet _across the carpet and_ touching _her could do it at this point.” Shaw’s nails dig into the blanket as she stands, stretching her back and bracing herself in a defensive position. Livid vengeance fills the air, and she breathes it in greedily, wanting nothing more than to rip Control’s throat out with her bare hands. She can feel the adrenaline surging through her, elevating her heart rate and causing her head to feel light. She bounces from foot to foot, waiting for Control to open the door. The handle jiggles, turns; the door is pushed open, and-_

Shaw’s eyes shoot open as she sucks in a hard breath, heart hammering in her chest and a light sweat beading her forehead. Her breath comes in sharp bursts as she blinks a few times, trying to make sense of her situation. Sitting up, the motion activated lights flicker to life, bathing the room in harsh, white light. Shaw squints through the burning sensation, listening for any sounds of Control. None appear. Sighing, she slouches back down in the chair, leaning her right elbow on the cot and resting her chin on her hand. She finds her left incasing Root’s, and doesn’t bother to shake the pins and needles out of it. Instead, she studies Root’s face as she sleeps.

Worried thoughts roll in like storm clouds, casting Shaw’s entire mind into a tempest of doubt. _Will Root’s heart fix?_ She thinks of the ICD, and how little it can truly do in their line of work. _How far will she be able to run if we’re being chased? Will she sit still long enough to heal?_ Knowing Root, the answer is a definitive no. Her thoughts turn back to the dream. _Could a single shock really be enough to send Root spiraling again? What if her heart really does explode next time?_ Shaw’s mind runs through a thousand different instances in which they’ve been shot, beat, and shocked. Anything could ruin her now, and to make matters worse, there is no way of testing which somethings are worse than others. Shaw is almost afraid to breathe in Root’s direction, unsure how fragile Root just might be. Looking at Root’s sleeping features, her pale skin and purple trimmed eyes and chapped lips, Shaw can barely connect her to the fearless, psychotic gunman she’s so used to. The one she’d taught to fight- what if Shaw had happened to hit Root in the wrong spot? The one she’d bandaged up bullet wound after bullet wound- what if one of those times the shock waves had taken her out? The one she, despite everything she did to ignore it, found herself attracted to, glued to, and married to- what if she’d died years ago? _What then?_ No, Shaw could not see someone so much of a forest fire as a single, flickering match.

Shaw becomes overwhelmed with her thoughts- her fluster, fury, and frustration mix in an intoxicating cocktail. She’s pissed at Control for setting this ball in motion, and she’s pissed at Harold for not wanting to come to the hospital, and she’s pissed at Root for nearly dying, and she’s pissed at herself for leaving Root to be captured in the first place. _I never should have listened to her,_ Shaw fumes at herself, every fiber of her muscles begin to fray from rage. Her grip tightens around Root’s hand as her teeth clench together, an infuriated and exhausted tear welling in the corner of her eye and spilling over. Her brain is a jumble of things, so many words and accusations and finger pointings that she can barely see what’s before her.

She’s blinded enough by pure, concentrated vexed frustration that she misses Root roll her head to the left, small groan barely making it past her lips. Root scrunches her eyes closed tight, the light registering through her eyelids for the first time as it burns into her corneas. She waits a moment, head flopped to the side, before she finally forces her eyes open. Everything is a blur, but after a few blinks, Shaw’s face comes into view. She’s looking slightly off center of Root’s face, eyes clouded with distance, lips pursed, and two angry tears sliding down either side of her face. Root licks her lips then swallows, throat dry as sandpaper.

“Don’t do that,” Root croaks, instantly gaining Shaw’s attention. Root smiles a little, never upset to see her. “You might rust.” She waits for Shaw to roll her eyes, maybe make a snide quip in reply, but nothing comes. Shaw just looks at her a moment, curious, then rubs the ball of her right hand under her eyes viciously.

“I’m not crying,” Shaw tells her matter-of-factly. “It’s just hot as _Hell_ in this room.” Root gives a small, dry chuckle in response, and Shaw’s minute defensiveness falters. Dropping her hand back down to the bedside, she can’t help but stare at Root’s smile, wondering how she can look so sick and so beautiful at the same time. Shaw tries to think of something to say- maybe a word of comfort- but the only thing that escapes her lips is, “You look pretty awful.”

Root rolls her eyes, and Shaw realizes that they are glassy with medication. Root tries to slide closer in the bed, then winces.

“Don’t move,” Shaw commands seriously; however, Root continues to struggle over. “Don’t you listen to _anything_ I say?” Shaw snaps, instantly despising herself for the wicked tone. Root stops; looks at her.

“If I did, life wouldn’t be as fun,” Root replies, a mix of sleep and drugs muddying her words. Again, she inches over- this time without Shaw’s complaint- until her head hangs floppily off the edge of her pillow, only inches from the side of the bed.

“You really need to rest,” Shaw tells her quietly, not sure how to voice her relief at Root’s seemingly well-being. “People don’t just get up and go after surgery.”

“Who said anything about _surgery_?” Root asks drowsily, eyes spilling with playful affection at Shaw as she wears a loving smile. She slips her left hand from Shaw’s, replacing it with her right, and runs the fingers of her left through Shaw’s hair. Shaw doesn’t remember taking it out of a ponytail, but realizes as Root begins to toy with her hair that it’s down over shoulders.

“Do you even _know_ where you are?” Shaw asks her, somewhat warily. Root’s eyes flicker with amusement.

“ _Somewhere_ ,” she replies, humor lacing her tone, and Shaw holds in a sigh. _She’s too out of it to know anything, and it would be worthless to explain it tonight._ “But,” Root continues, cutting off Shaw’s thoughts. “Wherever we are, _you_ were crying.” Shaw’s jaw tightens.

“Not, crying,” Shaw reminds her, and again, Root chuckles.

“Admit it, Sam,” Root slurs with a smile, “you were crying and _worried_ about me.” Shaw sits a second, rolls her eyes, then kisses Root lightly. As glad as she is to hear Root’s voice, she desperately needs Root to stop talking. A warmth spreads from her mouth to her nose and her cheeks, and she doesn’t pull back until the feeling fills every inch of her system, pushing out the chilled fingers of worry for the time being. She sees Root, eyes closed and forehead resting against hers with her hand still tangled in Shaw’s hair, and can’t help but to forget the world.

“Sam?” Root asks quietly.

“Hm?”

“I’m tired.” Shaw feels the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Then sleep,” she replies, and Root gives a delayed nod. Shaw rests her head on Root’s shoulder, Root leaning her cheek against Shaw’s temple, and envelops Root’s right hand in both of hers, eyes jumping between their hands and Root’s chest as it rises and falls. She lays still until the motion activated lights finally click off, and until Root’s left hand stops fiddling with her hair. She listens to the heart monitor keep its even beeps, and she listens to the oxygen purr as it flows through its thin tubing, and she listens to Root’s breath as its warmth hits her face on each exhale. Yet, past all of that, she can hear the soft but persistent _lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub_ of Root’s heart.


End file.
